


freefall

by tanyart



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 23:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: Shin, on the details of having wings.





	freefall

**Author's Note:**

> Back in July Ari prompted (requested? challenged? _threatened?_) me to write a wingfic drabble and so of course I wrote, like, two.

The first time Shin drops down into the Reckoning to look for Drifter, he has to kill three waves of Taken by himself.  
  
A bell chimes. The Emissary tells him to start crossing the bridge. Shin almost does as she says but before he can step through the gate, he’s brought to his knees in a whirlwind of white.  
  
A hand at his back of his neck pushes him down, all the way. Until his face is pressed into the cold hard ground. Shin doesn’t move because it’s Drifter, and Drifter’s got one wing spread over him like a sky-lit blanket.  
  
“The hell you doing?” Drifter snaps.  
  
Shin lifts his head. He stops breathing for a second, looking at Drifter.  
  
Drifter’s wings are pure white, which surprises Shin some. Shin’s own wings are flecked with gray at the tips, not quite so pristine but he likes it in that ironic way, like a joke he only knows the punchline to. A saving grace is the sleek shine to his feathers, well-kept and groomed. Drifter’s, on the other hand, are frayed at the edges like he doesn’t care much for preening or flying; most of the time, his wings stay tucked behind him, wrapped up tight.  
  
Drifter likes his feet on the ground, that much is obvious. Shin’s never seen him fly once, not even as Hope or anyone else besides.  
  
“Looking for you,” Shin manages, acutely aware of the feathers brushing at his hair.  
  
It’s really none of his business. Except he can’t help but wonder. Wonder for decades. The only time he’s really ever seen Drifter’s wings is when he’s got Drifter in bed, with the light too dim and the hands too distracting for a real good look.  
  
Drifter shifts, wing curling in and wrapping Shin up with it. Another feather brushes at Shin’s cheek, the bristle cold like ice against his skin. It makes Shin shiver, feeling how ragged they are, dry between the fibers and shafts so brittle Shin thinks they might bend and snap in two if he moves.  
  
It’s almost sad, letting those pretty white wings go to waste. Not that’s any real indication of morality — black, white, gray, old outdated superstitions — but still.  
  
“I was by the bank. Saw you jump down through the gate, you maniac. What the hell were you thinkin’?”  
  
A bunch of Drifter’s flight feathers lay crooked. Shin bites back the temptation to smooth them out, but he still can’t help but stare past Drifter’s angry glare to the canopy of white and how the light still filters in, blending them perfectly within the colorless landscape of the Reckoning.  
  
“Didn’t see you,” Shin admits, and uses the excuse to nod up to Drifter’s wings; the feathers flit over him, musses his hair like a hand ruffling his head. Stupid, wishful dreaming.

Drifter grabs his wrist, hissing to both their Ghosts, and grounds Shin back to Earth faster than the actual transmat that whisks them away.

* * *

Much like everything else involving Drifter, his snowy white wings become a point of fixation for Shin. He can’t help it. Shin buries one thing in his heart and upturns another, cycling through old aches and very occasionally making new ones.  
  
The wings are new — ever since Drifter had glided down to the Reckoning and wrapped Shin up in feathers, he’d been thinking of the cold sharp touches at his cheek, his hair and against his hands. Nothing so soft, bristles that prickled and scratched, and yet he still thought of them.  
  
Drifter lays on his stomach, wings hanging limp and spilling down the sides of the cot. He breathes hard, catching his breath, the evidence of Shin’s pleasure still wet between his legs. Each rise and fall of his shoulders rustle his wings, quiet music to Shin’s ears.  
  
Shin takes up a small towel, wets it with a bit of water and heats it up with solar. His hands come away with faint smears of blood on the cloth. There are small cuts all the way up to his forearms and needle-like punctures at his legs from where Drifter’s broken feathers had left their mark. Those don’t bleed, not like Shin’s hands where he couldn’t fight the temptation to run them through the tangled mess of Drifter’s wings.  
  
No small wonder Drifter can’t fly. Shin assumes it must be partly Drifter’s choice, and partly because he doesn’t care to groom them proper.  
  
The world ain’t much for flying by wing these days either. Makes a big target in the air, and armoring them up weighs even the strongest titans. Better to keep them nice and folded. Let them out for ceremony or if you wanna show off in the Crucible.  
  
But even with those excuses, Drifter’s wings are in near ruin for no reason. Shin stares at their ragged shape, criss-crossing and bent feathers, and feels a pang of — of annoyance, if anything.  
  
The mattress dips as he comes up to the foot of the cot with another clean cloth in his hand. Shin does Drifter the courtesy of touching his ankle in warning, and when Drifter only shifts his legs, Shin wipes him down.  
  
Shin’s own wings are relaxed behind him, splayed out contently. Drifter had threaded his fingers into them before, leaving Shin shivering from the touch — and it’s the strangest thing that Drifter likes to touch Shin’s wings, knows how to pull the loose feathers off so they sit right, brush them in place so Shin can drop from the Tower walls and float forever on them.  
  
Shin looks down at Drifter’s shoulders. He places one hand between the blades, the muscles connecting Drifter’s wings atrophied beneath the powder down feathers.  
  
Drifter tenses, head about to raise up, but Shin trails his hand to the nape of his neck. No hard pressure, just a warning touch.  
  
“You’re a mess. Let me clean you up.”  
  
“Yeah? And who’s to blame for that?” Drifter turns his head, just a bit. “Y’already-” He stops, inhaling sharp as Shin plucks out one of his broken feathers. “Hey!”  
  
Shin runs his hands down Drifter’s back, quieting him. “You never brush them. They’ve been cutting into me.”  
  
Drifter stills, though Shin can feel Drifter’s breathing pick up and go shallow. Shin risks brushing a hand over Drifter’s wing again, smoothing down the bristles. His fingers get caught between the broken vanes, the microcuts not enough to break skin, but they can both feel the pull.  
  
Drifter doesn’t answer him, but his shoulders drop and one wing twitches before going limp under Shin’s hands. Shin bites back the sudden urge to bend down and kiss the spot between Drifter’s shoulder blades.  
  
Instead, he starts there, brushing out the obvious wayward tufts and pulling out the broken feathers, one by one. It’s an impossible task for one night. Drifter’s hands are clenched the whole time.  
  
But there are moments, when Shin presses his palm into the joints of Drifter’s wings, and Drifter lefts out an inaudible sigh or arches just the tiniest bit into Shin’s touch. The broken white feathers pile up in Shin’s lap, and just after a few minutes Drifter’s wings already look more sparse, but it’ll give room for new feathers to grow.  
  
Shin’s hands are covered in new shallow cuts. The washcloth has ugly splotches of red blood, but Drifter’s wings are still white. Still not glossy or soft — and it won’t happen for weeks, and only if Drifter lets him preen him again — but Shin wipes his hands clean to run them through the feathers just for the satisfaction.  
  
“Done,” he says, pulling back his hands once he’s gotten his fill. “You alright?”  
  
“Hurts,” Drifter mutters, one wing lifting. He pushes up on his elbows, turning his head to inspect it. “Damn, you really went at it.”  
  
“You had a lot of problem feathers,” Shin says, lifting his weight from the back of Drifter’s thighs.  
  
Drifter rolls over to face him then looks at the scattered pile of white feathers over them. “You’ve made a damn mess.”  
  
His wings start to fold, like he wants to tuck them away, and there’s a flash of discomfort on Drifter’s face as he looks at his wing. Shin reaches out, surprised when Drifter’s wing settles into his hands without flinching.  
  
“It looks okay,” Shin says, dubious. He holds the wing in place, not yet ready for Drifter to fold them back.  
  
“Just...” Drifter begins, frowning. “Never had much use for ‘em but it’s really thinned out. Feels different.”  
  
Shin’s hands have been idly brushing Drifter’s wing again. Drifter leans into Shin’s touch by increments, but his gaze is on his other wing, testing it stiffly.  
  
Shin thinks he can jump off the Tower and fly for hours on this feeling.  
  
Without thinking, Shin reaches behind him, plucking out one of his longer feathers; cloudy white, a bit of gray at the bottom, unbroken. He offers it out for Drifter.  
  
“Since I pulled out some of yours,” Shin says.  
  
Drifter looks at him like he’s lost his mind, and it may as well be the case. He snorts, but takes the feather and tucks it into one of the emptier spaces of his wing. “You’re gonna owe me a lot more than that.”  
  
But in the end, Drifter only takes two more of Shin’s feathers into his wings, just the bare minimum to be able to fold in his wings and be comfortable. Every so often Shin catches a glimpse of gray on white when Drifter moves, and his ears start to ring. The rustle of Drifter’s wings start to sound like whispers. He wonders if maybe he’s flown too close to the sun this time.  
  
Drifter dozes off soon after, wings tucked so that it’s Shin’s turn to stretch and drape his wing over them.  
  
Shin stares at his own wing, thinks about taking one of Drifter’s old feathers to tuck with his. He twirls one in his hand and tries to smooth out the broken shaft, the point digging into his finger. Shin glances down at it; the bristles are clumped with blood.  
  
He lets it drop to the floor.


End file.
